


To Love and to Serve

by Laeviss



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: M/M, Trans Male Character, World of Warcraft Rare Pair Week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2019-05-24 23:10:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14964002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laeviss/pseuds/Laeviss
Summary: When Garrosh meets Nazgrim, he is struck by the sergeant's eager devotion to the Horde. But, as Nazgrim ascends the ranks and the two orcs grow closer, Garrosh soon learns just how deep the man's loyalty runs.





	1. First Impressions

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the World of Warcraft Rare Pair Week on Tumblr!

Garrosh lifted his head as another line of soldiers filed in to Warsong Hold. They conversed with Holgoth for a moment in the hall, then entered the keep’s main chamber, a few of them paying the map on the floor a glance and looking like they had no idea where to stand.

Garrosh let out a grunt and rose from his throne. Without a word, he moved to join Varok Saurfang, who had approached someone Garrosh thought he recognized, though it took a few moments to piece together where he had seen her. But when her eyes flashed in his direction, the answer came to him. Memories of Orgrimmar, that dusty night and that woman who had insulted his father—

“Overlord,” she bowed. The moments her gaze lingered on the floor betrayed just how well she remembered Garrosh and their discussion that night, though he pursed his lips around his tusks and tried not to let his realization show.

Saurfang seemed to pick up something from this exchange, however, and turned to angle himself between them. Straightening his shoulders, staring up into Garrosh’s eyes, he began, his voice firm, almost protective. “Overlord, this is Gorgonna. She comes to us from Conquest Hold to report that Conqueror Krenna is dead.”

 _Good._ Garrosh just barely bit back the urge to say. But he wasted this rare display of restraint by letting relief wash over his face: a kind of half smile that sent a murmur through the small group and sparked something akin to conflict in Gorgonna’s eyes.

Garrosh clenched his jaw, trying to regain his composure as Saurfang continued, somehow even warier than before: “She reports that her sister’s misuse of resources and brutality drove the operation into the ground. She is prepared to deliver a statement if necessary to justify her choice to—”

“There’s no need.” Garrosh cut him off with a wave of his hand, leaving the pair and circling around to the small band of soldiers. He stared down each member of the group in turn, his eyes first drawn to a sin’dorei mage wearing Dalaran’s colors, who had likely ported the troop to his chamber. Then there was a sergeant, dressed in standard-issue black-and-gold pauldrons, jaw clenched and head bowing when Garrosh approached.

And then, finally, another warrior, lingering at the back, his gaze glancing down at the map a few times as Garrosh approached, as if trying to confirm where his feet were standing, making sure he hadn’t crossed any lines. Stopping in front of him, Garrosh waited. The sergeant lifted his eyes and hurried to smooth out his tabard, straightening, grunting, “Hellscream, sir!”

Garrosh couldn’t help himself. Whether it was the orc’s sudden jerk upright or the use of his father’s name, a smile twitched at the corners of his lips, and he waited, watching.

“You, sergeant,” he took in his face for a moment: green skin and grey eyes that almost faded together in the firelight. His shoulders trembled a bit as he stood at attention, a little too tense, a little too determined to do the right thing. Every time Garrosh shifted his weight, he got a bit taller, and he had to wonder if the orc had risen up onto his toes. His own smile persisted, and he growled to mask his amusement. “Tell me what happened. I want to hear it from you.”

He didn’t care what the orc was saying so much as how he said it. The way his cheeks darkened when he opened his mouth and cleared his throat was more than enough to hold Garrosh’s attention. It felt weird, commanding this kind of respect from a soldier who’d served under a woman with the gall to call his father a traitor, and yet here they were: the soldier rambled, and Garrosh watched his gaze as it fell to stare at the Overlord’s tabard. 

He distantly heard the orc saying something about vrykul, and felt the first sergeant’s gaze on his back as he positioned himself between him and his fellow soldier. The sergeant’s rough voice and plain speech betrayed his humble upbringing, but Garrosh found that all the more charming, nodding, making a note to ask Saurfang his name and recommend some kind of promotion.

His loyalty, his eagerness, and his sincere, almost innocent, drive to serve the Horde would prove useful in the war to come. And the way his cheeks burned when Garrosh looked down at him lingered in the Overlord’s memory after the case was settled and the troop left him to the Borean night.

With a smile, reserved only for Garrosh’s quietest moments, he wandered across the map, and watched as the sergeant’s back disappeared down the hall.


	2. After Battle

After hours huddled in the snow, the ground forces of the Warsong Offensive jumped to attention when the Overlord and his escort finally emerged from the Citadel. A ripple went through the ranks— questions about the airship, about Saurfang’s whereabouts and whether the Alliance had tried to interfere— but Garrosh just grit his teeth and told them to stand at ease. The Lich King was vanquished, he promised. The war in the north was over. 

Without another word, he departed. Nazgrim couldn’t help but feel like something important hadn’t been said.

A meager celebration broke out in the sergeants’ camp, but Nazgrim was more concerned with Garrosh’s movements and the flash of…something he had caught in his eyes. He wondered why Hellscream had made with such haste towards Eitrigg, and why the two of them whispered with somber faces, shooting the occasional look towards the top of the tower, if the war with the Scourge had truly come to a close. 

They conversed for a moment, then something akin to relief passed over the older orc's features. But Garrosh remained unchanged: deep shadows lining his face as the fires around him flickered and dimmed. There was a certain vulnerability about him that Nazgrim never expected to see, a kind of sadness, even, and the sergeant had no idea what to do. 

And so he kept watching. He watched as Eitrigg left the Overlord to linger at the edge of the camp like a ghost. He watched as Garrosh dug his boot in the snow, and as his bare shoulders tensed and released to brace themselves against the cold. 

He watched until the Overlord’s eyes caught his from across the camp, and then promptly bowed his head to show his respect and his shame, hoping the silent apology for any line he might have crossed would be accepted, or, at the very least, ignored.

But when he looked up again, Garrosh Hellscream still had his eyes on him. He nodded and beckoned him over, and the chill that raced down Nazgrim’s spine had little to do with the cold.

Gritting his teeth and swallowing, he traversed the distance between them. If he was to be punished for spying, so be it, but he wanted his Overlord to know the look had come out of genuine concern, not some brash disrespect for authority or desire to snoop into Eitrigg’s personal dealings.

But Garrosh, quick to anger though every soldier knew him to be, looked more downhearted than he did insulted, and when Nazgrim opened his mouth to chance an apology, his superior cut him off, short, a bit strained from whatever emotion threatened to break through his tightly-clenched lips, whatever spirit haunted his eyes when he looked back up at the tower—

“Who are you, soldier?” It was the kind of phrase that meant much less than it seemed: something to fill the space where a real question should have been uttered. Nazgrim had already figured as much, but he straightened, and willed his voice to steady. If Hellscream wanted his words, he would do his best to satisfy him. 

Clearing his throat, he began, hoping his puzzlement and concern never reached his voice. “Sergeant Nazgrim, sir,” he paused, waiting for permission to continue, but, after a few silent moments tried again, firmer, and loud enough to be heard, for sure, through the whistling wind. 

“Blackrock Clan, originally. My mom is a miner in Orgrimmar, and I served in the Warsong Offensive in—”

“Conquest Hold. I remember.” 

Nazgrim raised his brow; something inside his chest clenched at the Overlord’s words. So he remembered their meeting at Warsong Hold, and his piecemeal attempt to describe the vrykul threat in the region and Krenna’s ultimate demise? His cheeks darkened a bit at the thought, and he lowered his head, just as he’d done that day.

“Yes, sir. I’m now in service to Gorgonna. She's here tonight if you want me to get her—” He gestured out towards the officers’ camp, wondering, at once, whether it was wise to offer, especially after he’d been caught all but gaping at Eitrigg and Overlord Hellscream.

But luckily, the other orc cut him off with a grunt. “There’s no need. I don’t want to speak with the officers tonight.”

“Oh,” Nazgrim responded with honest surprise. When he heard how he sounded, he shook his head, quickly trying to recover. “Yes, sir. I am sorry if I intruded. I can go, if you want to—”

“No. You can stay.”

“—Okay.” He blinked, but tried to retain his composure, adding a hurried, almost questioning, “sir!” and looking back up at Garrosh.

Why did the Overlord want him of all people to stand by his side and talk? What could he possibly offer that Gorgonna and the other officers could not? But if Garrosh wanted him there, he would stand, bracing against the cold and following his gaze up the Citadel. He would wait, staring, and wondering what fear cast its shadow over the hero’s face, and why their victory felt so bittersweet. 

The cold came like dread to fill the pit of his chest— dark and intangible, but without any detail or story to explain its sinister expanse. It filled the space between them, coming off Garrosh in waves, but try as he might, he could not put a name to this victory that didn’t quite feel so victorious. 

But finally, Garrosh spoke, all decorum and artifice stripped from his voice. “I saw things up there that I can't let happen again,” he mumbled, and, shifting his weight, rested his hand against Nazgrim’s fur pauldron. The sergeant willed his body not to tense, but it was hard, with Garrosh Hellscream standing so close, with him baring his concerns to a soldier like _him_ rather than one of Nazgrim’s superiors.

With his hand pressed against Nazgrim’s armor, and his voice heavy and pained. 

“Well, the Lich King is defeated,” he tried. “You won, sir. We have protected our people from this. From the Scourge.”

Garrosh let out a sigh, and at once Nazgrim worried he had misspoken. But the orc’s hand remained on his shoulder, clenching slightly, and he added, low, listless, even, though Nazgrim wouldn’t allow himself to dwell on the blatant emotion or the way his hand shook when he muttered:

“Maybe. But look at what we have lost.”


	3. Betrayal

“Get him inside,” Garrosh dimly heard somebody shout. A soldier all but pushed him back through the door to the keep, and under different circumstances, he might have protested this level of disrespect. But with his hands shaking and Gorehowl—his father’s axe, the axe that killed Cairne—still clutched in his hand, he could only sputter and stumble. 

Blood pounded in his ears. He squeezed his eyes closed, and shouted, ragged, almost desperate, “Who’s at the door? Saurfang? Vol’jin?” He had nothing to confirm it, but he couldn’t help feel like his enemies pressed in, just as the crowds had pressed in when Cairne collapsed at his feet. 

Just as they had fought to get at him as the Kor’kron all but ripped him from the arena and hurried across the city. And now they were here, barring the door, and if he wasn’t careful his should-have-been allies would break through his last defense and drag him back to the street to pay for a crime he didn’t commit. No one would listen to him, he knew. No one ever listened to him anymore. 

He shouted and kicked at the wall. The sound made a few of his Kor’kron whip back to watch as he sent a table flying across the room. His fists shook with rage and shame and all the doubts he struggled to hold back, but he could only shoot them a glare, quivering lips curling to reveal tightly-clenched teeth beneath. “What? What are you looking at?”

The soldiers jerked with such haste that they tripped against one another, each of them eager to put their back to their Warchief, except for one pair of familiar grey eyes that remained: a flicker in the shadows, watching his face, reminding him of another night when he had felt just as cornered and the blood of a someone who should have been at his side had stained his fingers—

—That sergeant, promoted last month to the legionnaire rank. Nazgrim.

Gorehowl fell with a thud and a clang, and his jaw went slack as he watched the door buckle, watched To’karg and Kar all but throw their bodies against the roar that shook his keep’s walls. The blood drained from his cheeks, but his face felt like an echo, left behind for the throbbing and burning of his own desperate need for exoneration. 

If only they’d hear out their Warchief, he thought as he flung himself forward. He could put an end to this, if he just made them listen, made them trust him.

But then the door rattled once more, and he caught the blue skin of a troll through the crack. It couldn’t have been Vol’jin, and yet, his stomach twisted in knots. He was here for him. Garrosh knew it. He knew—

“Vol’jin? Is that you?” He shot forward. A shocked Kor’kron pressed a hand to his chest, but he barely felt the contact. Instead he just growled and raised his fist to the air; the soldiers around him collectively held their breath.

“Vol’jin, you traitor. How _dare_ you come to me now? How dare you blame me for what happened to Cairne? You and Thrall can go fuck yourselves. You hear me? How dare you leave your Warchief here with this insolent, this turncoat—!”

“Get him back,” To’karg snapped, but Garrosh barely heard it under his roar. The same Kor’kron hand that had tried to brace him before now struggled to guide him into the hall, but he resisted. He wanted to fight, until another hand grabbed at his shoulder and finally forced him to yield. 

Staggering, he fell back behind his guard. In the distance, he heard somebody bark out an order to get him into his chamber. 

And then he looked side-to-side. From his left, his guard Jo’mag flung his forearm across his chest, and on his right, that soldier, Legionnaire Nazgrim, all but clutched the top of his arm. His face burned, and he jerked away, not wanting his soldiers to feel his vulnerability. 

Determined to go with his own resolve, determined to salvage what little authority he had left, he growled and pushed Jo’mag away, stopping just as his hand pressed flat against Nazgrim’s wrist. “Fine. Just leave me. I’ll go. Just—”

Making to stomp towards his chambers, he heard the Commander’s voice bark after him. “One of you follow him. Grab the axe. Make sure his chamber is clear before he goes inside. Jo’mag!”

Under different circumstances, Garrosh might have punished To’karg’s insolence for presuming his Warchief couldn’t guard his own door, but now he could only shout back, short, hearing the words in the air before he realized they were leaving his tongue:

“No, not Jo’mag. Nazgrim! I want Nazgrim.”

And for once, he didn’t wait to see that his order was met. Cursing himself, he took off towards the stairwell concealed behind his throne, kicking his boot against the wall on his way and feeling another wave of shame overtake him. Once he was out of the central chamber and away from the voices screaming at his door, all that was left were his thoughts and the image of the tauren’s body sprawled lifeless across the sand. 

Cairne’s insolence. The challenge. That grazing blow across the High Chieftain’s chest and the relief that had flooded that moment when he thought for sure he had proven himself a worthy leader to orcs and ancestors alike.

The way his blood splattered when Garrosh dealt the death blow, and the dull thud the tauren’s corpse had made as it hit the ground near his feet.

But the thud he heard now wasn’t Cairne, he realized. No, Nazgrim had propped Gorehowl up on the landing, and was reaching around him to open the door. His arm grazed Garrosh’s chest, and he froze. Holding his breath, he looked up, and when their eyes met, some kind of look passed between them. 

The legionnaire audibly swallowed and pursed his lips around his small set of tusks; looking away, Garrosh pushed through, face hot and resolved to be anywhere but on that landing when doubt and regret took hold again. 

“You can go,” he said, trying his best to be plain, but he knew the strain in his voice—strain that couldn’t be taken for simple exhaustion, not with him shaking like this—must have given his pain away. 

He felt Nazgrim lingering on the threshold, and so he shot him a glare, trying his voice again, “Your Warchief told you to stand down.”

“But my commanding officer—”

“Fuck your commanding officer!” Garrosh hadn’t meant to sound like a cornered animal, but here he was, whining like the talbuk he had caught in Nagrand. He hated himself for it. He couldn’t even get his own guard to listen, and every move he made towards authority just made his people push back.

His own guard was prepared to ignore his direct command, and he wouldn’t stand for it. Doubling back, he reached across the threshold and fumbled to find the handle. He’d have his peace whether the legionnaire stood in the path of his arm or not, but when he jerked the door closed, he only pushed the other orc further inside, trapping him between his chest and the metal frame.

And then their bodies were pressed together, and Garrosh knew for sure he could feel his heart pound through his steel chest plate. 

He growled and he sputtered, but his legs remained frozen in place. Nazgrim merely tilted his head up to stare, falling silent for a pause, confusion rising then falling from his eyes as his lips managed to part just enough to say, “I’m staying. You need a guard. Support, I mean—”

“Support? Where was Cairne’s support? Or Saurfang’s? Or Thrall’s?” He knew what the soldier had meant, but that didn’t stop the words that tumbled out like the wave that had wrecked their city. 

Once unleashed, they crashed and flowed on Garrosh’s ragged breath. And, holding his place between the orc and the door, Nazgrim looked up, wide-eyed, and listened. 

“They doubted me, Nazgrim. Nobody wants me to lead.” Garrosh’s voice disappeared in the space between them. Clenching his eyes closed, he finally gave in to his exhaustion, yielded to the emotion sweeping over him, and rested his face against the other orc’s forehead. 

There was a gasp. A moment of shock, and then a hushed voice, equally strained, “We believe in you, Warchief. Really.”

The orc’s breath was hot against his bare chest; the cool steel of his armor finally started to catch some of Garrosh’s warmth. The Warchief bit back a sigh, but Nazgrim lingered in what could only be called a half-formed embrace.

Finally, Garrosh let his shoulders relax, let the groan in his throat escape as a hiss through his teeth. Taking a step back, he stared down at the smaller man, and found nothing of judgment or blame in his eyes. The dread that loomed on all sides couldn’t press through the small gap between them, and, finding some ease, he let his hands relax by his sides.

“We believe in you, Warchief,” Nazgrim promised with a slight bow of his head. 

“Your Kor’kron and I will never betray you.”


	4. Celebration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nazgrim is trans and Garrosh is cis, and they're both gay.

Nazgrim stumbled when the back of his knees hit the throne. Sliding his hand up to Garrosh’s shoulder, he braced himself as the Warchief caught his lips in a kiss. Tusks ‘clck’ed when they bumped together, and Nazgrim tilted his head to try to accommodate. Garrosh’s fingers pressed up through his beard. 

He felt him exhale, felt his hand press firmly against his cheek and all but pull him to deepen the kiss. Garrosh’s tongue was hot pressed against his lower lip, and he couldn’t help but moan and yield to his Warchief’s touch. His eyes squeezed closed. Outside, another firework exploded, and, beneath his hands struggling for purchase on its smooth iron side, Nazgrim could have sworn he felt the throne shake.

A messenger had arrived late last night heralding Deathwing’s fall, and since then, the party hadn’t stopped. Even more exciting than the dragon’s demise was the revelation that Thrall had helmed the attack, wielding the Dragon Soul like no mortal ever had. For hours, Nazgrim’s vanguard had drank and went through every detail of the attack, and what this might mean for the orcs in Azeroth. No more will they be able to call us beasts, one of his soldiers had toasted, beer sloshing onto their bench as he jerked up his hand. Finally we have earned a real place on this planet. 

But Garrosh had seemed…despondent at first, and Nazgrim could only imagine why. As darkness descended on the party, he had made his way over to the Warchief, who lingered in silence by the fire with a mug in his hand and a cluster of Kor’kron at his side. They drank, and he listened, trying to piece together Garrosh’s bitter and hopeful and conflicted comments about the shaman’s imminent return. 

He had rested a hand on his shoulder and reassured him that their war efforts hadn’t been for nothing, and Garrosh had set down his beer, stepping closer, not even waiting for the other Kor’kron to leave before his hand moved to press against Nazgrim’s bare waist. 

By the time the fireworks started, Garrosh had pulled him up in his arms. Hands wandering, teeth knocking together, the Warchief had all but dragged him to the entrance of Grommash Hold. His back had hit the wall with a thud, and Garrosh’s hands had slid up his sides, clutching his shoulders, then giving his topknot a tug to expose his neck before dipping down to draw in a breath through his beard. 

Nazgrim had moaned, and Garrosh had led him across his map to the throne. If he was aiming for the stairs to his room, he didn’t quite make it, instead all but throwing his soldier against the iron arm of his chair and descending on him once more. With his tongue seeking out Nazgrim’s and his hands splaying across his hips, he lifted and pushed him back into the seat. 

And then the Warchief was between his legs. Nazgrim looked down and around and realized in a rush of shame and excitement where Garrosh had put him, and on any other day he would have protested this elevated position. His stomach clenched, but Garrosh pressed a hand against his chest to hold him in place. The half-formed question that escaped his lips all but disappeared into the Warchief’s kiss, and he arched his back and succumbed.

It was hard to insist on decorum while Garrosh’s fingers skated down his bare sides and splayed out across his hips. Instead he just shuddered and threw back his head, letting the Warchief lean down and nip at the crook of his neck and trying his best to abandon how flustered he felt.

But no matter how hard he swallowed and willed his breath to steady, his attempts to control his blush failed dramatically. Garrosh’s hand slid down to grab between his thighs, and the fire returned, his stomach in knots and his fingers struggling to keep hold of Garrosh’s back as he fought to muster out— something, anything but the groan and the gasp that took him in waves.

He dimly knew the Warchief might be surprised, and something in the back of his mind urged himself to explain, to make sure he understood, before this went any further. 

But the other orc just kept grabbing, his palm stretching over the codpiece Nazgrim didn’t quite need, his fingers dipping down between his legs to press and tug at the buckle holding the armor in place, and, hand shaking, Nazgrim reached down to help him.

And just as he felt the warm air ruffle his hair, Garrosh yanked off his boots. His leg guards soon joined them, the metallic clang they made when they hit the ground lost under the screams and shouts from outside, and then he was exposed. Legs splayed and bare on the Warchief’s throne, with Garrosh pressed flush against him. Face hot, he sank his teeth into his own upper lip. The other orc’s hands scooped him up from behind his knees and tugged him until his back hit the seat.

And then his legs were on Garrosh’s shoulders, and the Warchief’s nose was buried up in his thick nest of hair.

“Warchief!” His head hit the back of the seat. Garrosh’s tongue was hot, and even more insistent than it had been when they kissed up against the wall, as it flicked over the head of his clit, and Nazgrim couldn’t help gasp. Nerves faded beneath the jolt of relief that shot through him, and he squirmed. Chest rising, heels digging into Garrosh’s back and thighs flush against his face, he reached down and rested his hand against the orc’s arm to gasp out a short, indecorous, “Garrosh!” 

Garrosh let out a moan and murmured against his flushed skin. When Nazgrim glanced down, he caught two golden eyes, slightly widened, and the barest hint of a blush that betrayed…something about his Warchief’s thoughts. Uncertainty, maybe, and determination not to disappoint. Nazgrim had seen that look in his Warchief’s eyes before, but not aimed at him, not seeking out his approval. 

The look and Garrosh’s tongue flicking between his lips left his breathless, and all he could do was nod, and smooth his own sweaty palm across Garrosh’s head. _Good. Please, sir,_ he wanted to say, but all he could manage was “Garrosh,” growled out, all but sputtered, on the heels of a moan.

Thankfully, the Warchief seemed to understand. Nodding, he wrapped his lips around Nazgrim’s clit and gave it a careful suck, and it was all Nazgrim could do not to dig his nails into Garrosh’s scalp. Thighs clenching around the orc’s face, the legionnaire arched up his back. Struggling, he released his hold on Garrosh to cling, instead, to the arm of the chair, shaking, rolling his hips, enjoying the feel of his tusks pressed against the crook of his thighs and that tongue, hot and thick, moving against his flesh.

Rocking and trembling into the pressure surrounding him, he stared down into Garrosh’s eyes, shaking when he followed their gaze on to him, to the hair trailing down his lower abdomen and to his clit now swollen and flushed and wet from the Warchief’s earnest efforts. Garrosh’s fingers smoothed through his hair up to thumb at the hardened nub, and Nazgrim cried out, breath hitching, hands clinging to both sides of the throne.

With every lick and suck and murmur from his Warchief, Nazgrim had to fight to hold back the pressure that built deep inside of him. He had to force his legs straight and squeeze closed his eyes, and even then he couldn’t hold still. Pleasure washed over him. His feet hit Garrosh’s back. Everything clenched, and he jerked his hips off the throne chair, aware of nothing except Garrosh’s thumb flicking faster and his breath, hot and ragged, as it ruffled through Nazgrim’s soaked hair.

Golden eyes watched him as he moaned, and he saw Garrosh grin when he came, hard, and wet against the Warchief’s lower lip. 

And then, he felt warmth as Garrosh scooped him up from the seat and pressed his hips firmly between his thighs. 

Still lost in the haze of release and struggling to catch his breath, Nazgrim didn’t hear Garrosh undo his belt or the lacings that closed his pants. It wasn’t until the Warchief lifted his legs up around his waist that he realized where they were going, realized Garrosh’s cock was now bare and pressing between his lips. 

Garrosh rolled forward, and rubbed against Nazgrim’s already-sensitive clit, and everything sparked back to life. Nazgrim shuddered; his hand hit the throne. He felt every piercing from the Warchief’s head to his base, the cool metal threatening to overpower him, to shake every nerve in his body. He tensed, raw and sensitive, but let Garrosh slide forward. When he glanced down between them, he saw the brown head of his cock sliding between his lips, between their abdomens flush against one another, and his cheeks burned.

His Warchief leaned over and rocked their bodies together, and, finally, he peeled his fingers away from the armrest and wrapped them around the other orc’s neck. Burying his face against him, he inhaled his scent—their scents, mingled together on Garrosh’s lips—and struggled to hold down a squirm at the irritation and desperation and need building under his overworked clit.

“Can I—?” Garrosh growled, low, a sound Nazgrim felt building deep in his chest before the words rose to his lips. He nodded, and dug in his nail, and then Garrosh shifted, reached his hand between them, grasping the base of his cock, and then—

— “Argh!” He cried out, turning and burying his nose against Garrosh’s collarbone in an attempt to muffle the sound. He felt his body stretch, then accommodate, Garrosh’s length sinking down in a thrust as slow as it was determined. And then, Garrosh exhaled, and the whine he sensed on his breath was almost too much for Nazgrim to handle. 

The Warchief pressed in on him and shuddered, quivered, even, because of _him._ And all Nazgrim could do was wrap his legs tight around him, nuzzling and kissing his neck, intent on showing his leader just how much he appreciated this, and all that he wanted to do for him.

When Garrosh’s hips started rocking, Nazgrim was there to meet him, lifting, then sinking down on his length. The Warchief’s pierced cock pressed deep, and something inside him shook. The throne squeaked. Garrosh’s moans grew louder, loud enough to echo off every wall, and Nazgrim threw back his head. 

Falling into a pace, Nazgrim savored every thrust, from the way Garrosh’s piercings felt as they rubbed against his inner wall to the tightness that threatened to build every time he hit him _just right_. From his thickness and length to the way his chest smelled, hot against Nazgrim’s cheek, and his growls, needy and fierce, tickling Nazgrim’s short hair. 

From the way he bared his teeth like a wolf to the praises he murmured, half-incoherent, as he slammed Nazgrim back on the throne. 

And with this shift in position, the pressure inside him changed. He tightened and gasped, and Garrosh took this as a sign to thrust harder. The throne’s rocking now had little to do with the explosions that shook Grommash Hold, nor did the party outside prove loud enough to conceal their grunts. But all of that might as well have been back on the ocean outside Tol Barad, as far as Nazgrim’s thoughts were concerned. All he knew and could grasp was his Warchief, his cock, and their heat as they moved together and _clung_.

Garrosh threw his weight forward and dropped Nazgrim’s thighs to press his hands against his sides, using this new grip for leverage to thrust faster, harder, and to keep Nazgrim down in the chair. And then, he growled and sank into him one last time, barely managing to spit out the question before his hips jerked and he fell. 

Nazgrim felt a jagged cry rip through his chest, and then Garrosh’s thighs tensed between his, his cock jerked inside him, and then he full, but then—

Just as Nazgrim expected Garrosh to shift his weight and slide out, a hand, sweaty and shaking, snaked into the space between them, catching some wetness from the place where their bodies now met before rubbing up over his clit, teasing it with the pad of his thumb, and then grasping and jerking.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Nazgrim managed to hiss between his clenched teeth. Garrosh lifted up onto the palm of his free hand and watched as he tried again. Nazgrim’s face burned, but Garrosh’s cheeks were awash with the heat of his own release, and he wasted nothing on shyness this time. He rubbed, and Nazgrim’s body jerked and quivered around the cock still buried inside him. It didn’t take much until Nazgrim’s muscles started to tighten, heat building, all of his focus on Garrosh’s thumb and the jolts that wracked through his body.

“ _Fuck!_ ” Again, his hips gave a jerk and his feet struggled for purchase on the lip of the throne. But this time, Garrosh’s body held him in place. His fingers kept going, kept driving Nazgrim towards his release, until everything seemed to go black and flash and there was only the clenching of nerves at the base of his clit and the wetness leaking on to Garrosh’s cock. 

He gasped, tensed, then released, and when he finally caught his breath he found himself wedged between Garrosh’s sweat-soaked chest and the cool iron of his throne. Somebody’s heart was pounding, and, when the Warchief finally shifted, Nazgrim felt his cum drip in a trail from his slit to the seat of the chair. 

He buried his face against Garrosh’s neck, and let out a flustered sigh. “Warchief—” he started, but then, as the details of the room around him started to materialize over Garrosh’s shoulder, one apology died for another, more desperate, “Sir, people, over there—”

Garrosh let out a sound; it could have been a groan or a sigh, but through halted breaths, it was hard for Nazgrim to tell. Looking back up into Garrosh’s eyes, he waited for him to continue, but the Warchief seemed to have other plans. Pressing their lips together, he kissed him until their visitors’ footsteps disappeared back into the night. Then, finally, he muttered, “It’s fine. Thrall will come back, you know.”

“I—” Even in his post-orgasm haze, Nazgrim couldn’t help but wonder where this was headed. He nodded and let the Warchief continue, keeping his arms draped around his neck and his face pressed close to his skin.

“I’ll ask him to make me a general. I can promote you. We can protect the Horde together.”

“Warchief?” He managed but realized at once that the title might be unwelcome. He tried again, softer, and hesitant. No longer emboldened by lust, his lips found it hard to form the word. “Garrosh, sir. You’ve honored us while he was gone. He will see—”

But Garrosh just shook his head, and fell silent, and Nazgrim tried to relax back into the chair. Thoughts of serving beside General Hellscream, winning Kalimdor for the orcs, came flooding into his mind, and he found himself sinking into the warmth of the Warchief’s embrace.


	5. Mission

His hunch was probably right about this Alliance prisoner, but Nazgrim didn’t want his troop to find out. 

Taking a step between the barrel of Shokia’s gun and the boy, he listened as she detailed their discovery and questioned this “pinkskin” child’s intentions in camping around the statue. He straightened his shoulders and mopped the sweat from his brow, feeling the human behind him struggling with his tabard in the oppressive heat. Finally, he turned to stare into his wide blue eyes. Anduin, or, whoever this was, jumped to attention.

“Sir, I am not a military target—” The boy tried in heavily-accented Orcish, and Nazgrim decided that this alone was enough to confirm his suspicions. Young Alliance recruits didn’t learn foreign languages, but the son of the king…

“I am here to explore the region. I want no trouble with the Horde. I—” The boy stumbled and scrunched up his brow as if searching deep in his memory. After a long pause, he uttered a word Nazgrim himself only barely knew, something in Common the forsaken used to describe the horrors they kept in their basement, “ _Research?_ ” 

From across the camp, Nazgrim caught Kiryn lifting her head; when the child saw, he shifted his weight and looked down, his blond hair clinging to his face even when he gave his head a firm shake. “Ah, sorry. I don’t know the word in your language.”

“How do you know Orcish, boy?” Shokia had cocked her gun at some point in their prisoner’s exposition, and now took a step closer, the tip mere inches from grazing her general’s arm. He shot her a look, but let her advance, and beside him, the human’s body quivered with what had to be half-concealed fear. 

Of course, someone his age had likely never stared down a gun, or someone as bitterly resolute as Shokia, for that matter. He kept quiet, and watched the scene unfold. He scrambled to spit out some explanation, but Shokia persisted, eyes flashing, “He’s a spy. They trained him in Orcish to spy on us. We must contact the Warchief and get him shipped back to Orgrimmar. I bet Malkorok could get a few things out of—”

“No!” The boy all but squeaked, betraying his age. His pale cheeks darkened, and, after pausing and swallowing, his shoulders relaxed from his ears. Once again Nazgrim was struck by his poise and obvious self-control, not as a somber spy, but rather like the sin’dorei envoys who sat at his Warchief’s table. Oh, if they just had a sin’dorei here, maybe they could confirm his suspicions…

But for now, Kiryn was his best bet. Shooting the forsaken a look, he reached down and took the young human’s wrist. And though he hadn’t meant for the gesture to startle, he wasn’t surprised when the boy flinched under his hold, or tensed when he lifted his arm to the light. A soft palm curved down into a slender wrist, which disappeared beneath a silk sleeve hemmed with thread that caught the sunlight. Nazgrim hadn’t spent much time around human treasure, but he suspected it was made of gold. 

“Kiryn,” he called, and, almost too quickly for footfalls, the forsaken rogue appeared before him. Shokia lowered her gun—but just slightly—as the two filled the gap between her and the child. Nazgrim glanced between them, then continued, giving the boy’s hand a shake. “Would a human spy wear something like this?”

“Probably not,” she admitted. Beside him, he felt the boy hold his breath, and he paid him another long look. 

“Why?”

“That tunic cost more than a soldier makes in a year.” She had reached out and grabbed the boy’s other arm, much to his clear and obvious chagrin. Nazgrim could almost feel the disgust churning beneath his skin, prickling as she caught his wrist between bony fingers and gave the gold thread a tug. 

But again, whatever nausea had come for the boy he had swiftly, and measuredly, put to rest. He even managed to smile around his clenched teeth as he offered, “I can give it to you. If you let me go, I’ll, ah, I can give it to you, as a—” He paused again, but then hurriedly added in the wrong form: “It’s trading!”

“What would I do with your clothes?” Kiryn did little to hide her amusement, but Shokia seemed to take it as an insult. 

“Listen to him, general,” she demanded, and waved at him with her gun. Nazgrim finally released his grip on the boy and wiped his palm off on his leg guard. She growled, glanced between them, then continued, shoulders straight and her gun poised to shoot. “Bartering like some goblin. He sounds like a criminal to me.”

“He sounds like a noble,” Kiryn pointed out with another shake of her head, and at that, the human boy held his breath. 

Oh. His suspicions were right. Nazgrim raised his hands open-palm to his chest, knowing that, if he really had Anduin Wrynn in his custody, he had to put an end to this now. The prince was far too important a target to take one of Shokia’s bullets.

Not to mention any personal stakes the Warchief had in this capture, though Nazgrim tried not to dwell on that, at least for now. He had to deliver the hostage to him for the Horde, no matter what this might mean for him, and for the boy.

Dimly he heard Shokia raising some accusation about the nobility’s role in the Orcish internment, but he didn’t let her continue. With a grunt, he straightened, and both soldiers stood at attention. Even Anduin Wrynn seemed to sense that a shift had happened and stopped rubbing his wrist on his pant to turn his gaze back on Nazgrim. 

Nazgrim met his eyes with a searching look, and then turned back to Shokia, wrapping his hand around the barrel of her gun. “I will contact the Warchief. In the meantime, don’t antagonize him. If you two can’t control a child without shooting him, I will find someone who can.”

“Yes, sir,” Shokia snapped back, her bitterness starting to seep through, but Nazgrim pretended he hadn’t heard. Instead, he looked over Anduin one last time, and then, trying to put it as simply as possible, he added, “And you, boy, keep your shirt on. Your pale skin will burn in the sun.”

The boy’s pursed frown started to soften, but Nazgrim didn’t stand by to make nice. Instead, he turned and headed into his tent, picking up a small silver disk from the table and jabbing it with his finger. The goblin-made machine sparked to life, lights looping around its rim before calling up a wavering face that soon became to a familiar one.

Garrosh’s gold eyes and sharp tusks stared back at him in the air, and, upon recognition, he jerked himself upright. The pillows behind him slid to the side as he leaned forward and scooped up his own device, rattling it, and then whispering, low, and a little too eager, “What? Are you alone?”

“I hope I didn’t wake you, Warchief,” Nazgrim started, but Garrosh just shook his head. After paying a pointed glance towards the flap of the tent, he lowered his voice and continued, “I’m alone. Something came up—”

Now, as he struggled for the words to explain and realized the magnitude of this discovery, something inside of the general lurched and then clenched. He hoped his nerves never reached his eyes, but thankfully Garrosh seemed too eager to notice regardless.

“Well? What happened? Tell me.”

Looking over his shoulder once more, Nazgrim tried, a bit quieter, “We found an Alliance soldier.”

“What did you get from him?” Garrosh’s image faltered for the briefest of moments, but when it came back, Nazgrim realized that he had gotten off his bed and now paced around his room. His projection shook with each heavy step.

“Sir,” Nazgrim watched the image flicker again, then resolved to spit the truth out. The prince presented a tactical advantage, and whatever history Garrosh had or imagined with Varian Wrynn had little bearing on what they could do with this hostage. Nazgrim cursed himself for his hesitation, reminded himself, again, how important this was from a _military standpoint_ and not just to Garrosh’s personal life. Gritting his teeth, he managed, in little more than a hiss:

“Sir, I believe we have Prince Anduin Wrynn.”

And just as Nazgrim had expected, something passed over Garrosh’s face. He stopped, and without the speed of his gait to shake the machine the image’s static died down and Nazgrim was left with two widened eyes and lips that didn’t quite know whether to smile or frown. He opened his mouth a few times, but nothing came out. Finally, after the device’s hum reached a crescendo, he broke back with a simple “Send him to Orgrimmar.”

Even despite the heat, Nazgrim’s own cheeks grew cold, but he tried not to imagine any number of directions such a passage could stray. He tried not to think about his Warchief getting revenge on the boy for his father’s emotional slight, or using him as…what? Some kind of token to lure King Wrynn back into his bed? Of late, his Warchief’s moods were erratic, and at this point he knew anything was on the table.

Between the bombing of Theramore and his mounting fixation on this new continent, Garrosh’s mind now churned like a storm, and Nazgrim felt trapped between facilitating it and dissuading it, between protecting his lover’s sanity and empowering it with whatever he managed to take from the Alliance and this land.

He thought of the boy and how his hand shook under Nazgrim’s grasp, the way his lips struggled in earnest to form the words of their language. He thought of Garrosh’s rants about Varian, the way the king kept him preoccupied while Nazgrim sat up in his bed. His troops had been none the wiser. He could have just held his tongue.

He could have just put a stop to this, but instead he lowered his head, mopped the sweat from his brow, and muttered, “Yes sir.”


	6. Loyalty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some dubcon discussion and violent, intrusive thoughts.

Garrosh stared out from his window above Grommash Hold with his hand clenched in a fist on the sill. Around him, Orgrimmar throbbed, from the heavy footfalls of Kor’kron patrolling the gates to the peons digging and hammering into the earth below. And through it all, he felt the heart beat, pounding into his mind and his chest, shaking him down to the core of his being, whispering, pressing. 

_Civilizations will fall._

He growled and kicked the wall with his iron-tipped boot. When would his volunteer get here? Shooting another glare towards the door, he circled around his bed, pacing like he had somewhere he needed to be. And he did, the voice murmured. He needed to go to Stormwind, to rip down their walls and tear their king limb-from-limb. He needed to make him pay for his insult, to see him suffer like Garrosh had suffered that night when he said they were through. 

Pain and shame and regret flooded back on the heels of that thought; the pounding grew louder, shaking his walls, rattling at the door, until finally—

“Warchief?” 

Garrosh whipped back and sought out the sound. His gaze found the door, now cracked open and spilling its light in a shaft striped across the floor, and he caught the silhouette of a familiar figure lingering over the threshold: grey eyes narrowed, lips set in a frown wrapped around his tusks. 

“What do you want?” He snapped in a voice that was hardly his own. He hadn’t intended to say it—part of him, the part that still felt like _him_ was grateful to see his general. And yet when he opened his mouth this newfound rage boiled over like slag churning in the foundry. 

He’s here to mock you, it screamed. He’s here to hurt you and leave you like everyone else has left. How dare he speak to you when you’re—

“I know what you’re doing.” The anger that flickered across Nazgrim’s face only made the throbbing get louder. Before Garrosh had time to think, he lunged forward, all but looming over the smaller orc. Nazgrim flinched when his shadow spilled into the gap between them, but his gaze remained resolute. “Malkorok’s asking young Kor’kron to come entertain you. This isn’t like you, Garrosh. You’d never—” 

_Wreck him. Make him cower down at your feet. Choke him and crush him and drag his corpse into the streets._

Garrosh stamped his boot on the floor. The clang of iron on iron echoed off every wall. “You question me, Nazgrim? I am your Warchief! I can do whatever I please, and you, you can’t—” The fire in him grew hotter, the need to prove he was in control. It throbbed at the edge of his gaze and made his knees weak. Fuming, advancing, he heard himself sputter, “Do you have any idea who I am?”

Again, Nazgrim drew in an audible breath, but again, he refused to back down. Instead, he just lowered his eyes, and offered a short, sincere, “No.”

Garrosh stopped. The world quivered with rage. No? What insolence! What disrespect! He would die for this—

“Not anymore. Since you dug up that heart, I have no idea who you are.”

His arm snapped back to land a blow; at the last moment, something in him scrambled to stay his hand, and his fist hit the doorframe, instead. Pain shot through his knuckles on contact, and he bared his teeth, hissing, and throwing his body weight forward. Now he had Nazgrim trapped between him and the door. If he could just silence his own protests he could seize him and throw him down on his knees. 

He could show him what he would do to all who disobeyed his command, from the trolls gathering troops at his gates to the shopkeepers longing for his demise. From Thrall to Varian to that little prince who had dared get between him and control. Every last one would die for their crimes. He’d pile their heads in his keep. The throbbing would cease. He’d stop hating who he once was, and then—

“Why are you doing this, sir?” Strained and shaken though his voice clearly was, Nazgrim managed a whisper. It caught Garrosh off guard, and he looked down. Something in Nazgrim’s face reminded him of another day, long ago, when a young legionnaire had stood between him and the door.

It shook him, and for a moment, the murmurs fell silent. Garrosh felt his voice rise to his lips: “No one respects me.”

“We do,” Nazgrim insisted; Garrosh squeezed his eyes closed and fought to shove down a renewed bout of rage. He reached out and clung to the doorframe, to that memory shaken, now, by the throbbing inside his head, and willed the details to remain where they were. From Nazgrim’s clenched jaw to the warmth of his breath, he remembered. From the way his cheeks burned, to the heat that had spread through his chest. 

His life was still here. Garrosh himself was still here. And Nazgrim stood in the space between him and the door, holding his breath, reaching a palm to rest against Garrosh’s cheek, staring down danger with that same eager drive that had charmed him so many times. 

Nazgrim’s thumb traced the curve of Garrosh’s cheek, never wavering, not even withdrawing when a shudder passed under his skin. “Warchief?”

“I don’t know,” he finally answered, solemn and hushed. “I don’t know. I just want the pounding to stop. I haven’t forced anyone, Nazgrim. I just need these murmurs to _stop_.”

“Then tell me how I can serve you.” The hand on his cheek had moved to rest on his shoulder, and when Garrosh finally chanced a glance down, he found Nazgrim’s grey eyes watching the battle of pain and control that played out across his face. There no judgment or hate or disgust to be found, no matter what the heart screamed, and he inhaled through his doubts, leaning down, and knocking their tusks together.

Nazgrim’s teeth parted on contact, and his tongue moved, soft and wet, against Garrosh’s lower lip. Releasing his hold on the wall, Garrosh instead wrapped his arm around Nazgrim’s shoulder, pulling him into the room, closing the door, and leaving behind the harsh light that had cut a line across his face. 

Once in the shadows, he was able to breathe in the other orc’s scent; holding him tight, he felt a heart beat that had nothing to do with Y’shaarj. And then he kissed harder, pressing his other hand up through his general’s beard, tilting his head to the side and murmuring low on the heels of his kiss, “Stay.”

“Yes, sir. Of course.”

The next ‘thd’ was Garrosh’s hand pressing against Nazgrim’s back and guiding him towards the bed. Their footfalls—hurried, erratic—fell out of time with the heart’s throbbing beat, and when the general slid a hand up and across his chest, Garrosh’s nerves called him back to the moment. Tilting his head, he savored the soft pad of Nazgrim’s lower lip and the scratch of his tusk against the crook of his neck. His beard still tickled just like it used to, brushing over his nipple’s sensitive nub. 

He threw back his head and felt the other orc’s breath on his skin. And then there was only his kiss, and the hand that slid from his chest down the curve of his abdomen, and then to the half-opened laces concealing his cock. With every touch came a gasp and a need that welled up deep inside him: agitating, but welcome, as his shaft swelled against leather cords and his general’s fingers fumbled to get him free. 

Rolling and lifting his hips, he let Nazgrim pull down his pants. They shared a glance over his body, an unspoken smile that echoed earlier times. Looking into his general’s face, he realized that the tension was gone, that he no longer gritted his teeth, and in that, Garrosh found solace. 

He could almost rest happy, thrust up into the orc’s calloused palm, but then, the drumming returned, starting low, but building to voices that rumbled and murmured, disgusted, from every corner of his mind. 

_You’re weak, and he knows it. You have to prove him wrong._

With a growl, Garrosh tossed back his head. Nazgrim’s hand started to move, his cool armor pressing against his bare chest and his teeth nipping cautiously at his shoulder. But neither the sting of his bite nor the pressure that built when he slid Garrosh’s ring through his cock’s slit proved enough to hold back the heart. It pounded and shook like his bed as it hit the wall. 

Its eyes stared down at his shuddering chest: thousands of eyes, Nazgrim’s and Vol’jin’s and Varian’s eyes—dark and full of contempt. They laughed and they prodded and made a mockery of _him,_ and he needed to get away. 

The blood raced in his ears like the whispers that haunted his thoughts, and when his head hit the pillow once more, it was to cry out and struggle against the cold tides that threatened to rip the breath from his lungs. 

“Fuck!” Dimly he heard himself scream, but there was nothing of pleasure left in it. The next thing he knew, Nazgrim had released his hold on his cock to press his hand against his face. Hovering over him for a pause, he finally rested their foreheads together. His breath was ragged and hot, but barely enough to stave off the chill that swelled in Garrosh’s chest.

Then, Garrosh felt that breath hitch, as his general murmured, “Okay?” 

He knows. Fuck, he knows, and he hates every inch of my body. 

But Nazgrim accused him of nothing. He just nuzzled against his cheek and waited, covering him with his chest, and Garrosh clung to the feeling. Pleading with Y’shaarj’s raspy hiss, he closed his eyes, caught his breath, tried to justify his emotional lapse, but all he could manage was “Fuck me.” 

_I need you to take control._

And Nazgrim, always the loyal general, nodded and did what he asked. The bed squeaked when the smaller orc shifted his weight and stepped down on the floor. Garrosh followed him with his eyes, watched him unlatch his pants and kick them off in a pile by Garrosh’s iron chest. 

He even caught the hint of a wistful look as he knelt down and unlatched the lid, and saw his throat tighten when he glanced back at Garrosh and asked, just as sheepish as he had during happier times, “It’s where it used to be?”

“Yeah,” he exhaled. Again aware of the general’s grey eyes, he struggled to dam up the paranoia that churned in the pit of his stomach. Why was he looking? What was he trying to see? The shy look that passed between them shattered, and Garrosh bit down on his lip. 

He wanted to feel him, to catch a smile on his lips, but the heart’s murmur robbed him of even that warmth. Just as Nazgrim reached in and pulled out a handful of leather straps and the toy affixed to its harness, Garrosh made up his mind. Pressing up onto his hands, he rolled over and spread his legs. He could feel Nazgrim’s eyes on his back, but at least now he could hide his face in the pillow, swallow his shame and fade into the darkness.

Distantly, Nazgrim’s palm slid over his skin. His fingers splayed out on his hip, while his other hand dipped down between his cheeks to press lightly against his hole. Something cool slid over his opening and dripped down his sac; unlike the chill from before, though, its caress drew out a shiver that was almost a welcome guest.

And then Nazgrim kissed his back. His beard brushed over Garrosh’s skin, and he murmured, “Okay?” 

Garrosh bit down, tightened his fingers around the edge of the pillow, and nodded, despite all the whispers and thuds and the lump that caught in his throat, “Yes.”

Something smooth and cool pressed against him; one of Nazgrim’s hands clutched his waist while the other spread his cheeks and guided the metal rod’s head against his hole. A small vial fell, discarded, on the mattress beside him. His body stretched to accommodate the intrusion, and then Nazgrim rocked forward, thighs pressing against the back of his legs, and he grunted, “Garrosh.”

“Urgh.” The toy filled him; the pillow muffled his groan. Burying his nose in the cloth, he took every inch, and with it, his body remembered. He remembered how to relax, and how the straps felt when they swung between his legs. He remembered Nazgrim holding and rocking against him when all that was in him was want.

He swallowed and clung to those moments. And when Nazgrim dipped down to press a kiss between his shoulders, he gasped, even shivered, and his cock twitched back to life between his legs. 

With every thrust, he fought to hold on. His hands balled around his linen pillow and clawed at the mattress below, and he slammed his hips back, lifting and angling so every thrust dragged the prosthetic against his inner wall. Nazgrim shifted his weight and reached down and grasp Garrosh’s cock, and this time there was only the warmth and pressure that surrounded him: calloused fingers rubbing his piercings and the general’s palm pressing the skin up over his head. 

As the tension started to build, the whispers lingering on the fringes of Garrosh’s mind faded into the shadows. Nazgrim’s thighs knocked against his own and the buckles that held the orc’s harness in place clinged softly, in rhythm with his thrusts, against each leather strap.

Garrosh let out a moan, and finally, feeling took hold. 

And then, there was silence, not around him, but in him, as something clenched deep beneath his shaft. Nazgrim thrust forward again, pressing against him just right, and his hand drew out the tightness as he pumped from his base to his head. Something unfurled, and then he came hard with a gasp and a wordless cry, heart pounding, legs tensing, cum leaking between his general’s fingers.

Darkness and stillness and warmth wrapped around him as Nazgrim collapsed, still inside, to press desperate kisses across his back.

Their hearts pounded, and the city shook. Garrosh clung to the shadows. 

And then in his heart a voice jeered—low and coarse and laden with hate—that soon it would all be gone.


	7. Reunion

His Warchief was dead. It hadn’t taken long for the other death knights to confirm his suspicions, and from the moment he learned of Thrall’s treachery in Mak’gora he started planning to set things right. It began as a dull ache, a nagging thought he, at first, believed to be his master’s voice, but then it spread in his chest like a chill, biting, left him longing for earlier nights by the fire in Grommash Hold. 

He bided his time through the war. He committed to a new cause and found strength in his new deathly form. He had once faltered in killing those who wished harm on his people, but now murder came easily. Once he had passed through the tunnel of death and emerged again into the Durotar sun, remorse felt like a distant memory. Most of his feelings lingered on the edge of his mind like this, barely brushing his thoughts except to call up some image or touch from a glimpse of his life before. 

But his need to see Garrosh, to serve him, to stand by his side as soldiers just as they always had planned, burgeoned with each passing day. Until finally, after the Legion was vanquished and the Horde and Alliance started their bid for new allies, he learned he would have a chance.

He had never seen Draenor in life, but it didn’t take long for him to find his Warchief’s remains. From the portal ripped open into this alternate time, he traveled on foot across the plains now scoured by fire and light, not needing to pause to rest or take food, and no longer hindered by the suspicious looks shot in his direction by soldiers along the road. He had learned to accept whatever judgment came to him on Azeroth, and just straightened and snarled at anyone who flinched under his death-blue gaze. 

The locals stared but made no move to stop him. Departing from the path he trudged through a grassy field, only dimly aware of the warm wind on his icy skin and the plants he crushed under his steel-tipped boots. 

In the back of his mind, he remembered echoes of stories about this land where Garrosh had spent his childhood. At night, with the Warchief’s arm wrapped around his waist and his furs draped over their bodies, he had listened to talk about talbuks and Broken and waterfalls from the sky. Now, in death, he could barely recall the images he had dreamed up, but seeing the place firsthand still brought the ghost of a smile to his lips.

Of course, this hadn’t been Garrosh’s Nagrand, he reminded himself, as his gaze strayed up to a rockless sky. Still, he couldn’t help wonder what the Warchief-turned-Warlord had done in his last two years, if he’d hunted across the plains with his father and lived the life he had longed for. Something tugged at Nazgrim’s heart, but he couldn’t be sure if it came from the present or from a memory of Garrosh’s lips pursed around his large tusks, his eyes downcast, his voice thick with emotions his station barely permitted.

How could Thrall have killed him? How could he have struck down an orc who _loved_ him, who had longed for his approval? The World Shaman still garnered respect on their planet but knew nothing of honor and loyalty! He spat at the thought, dug his boots in the mud, and kept trudging.

Warm thoughts boiled to rage—white hot and violent and present from his face to the pit of his chest. It was one of the only sensations he felt without grappling across the line between life and death, and now it took hold and screamed for blood. But soon enough, Garrosh would rise again, and then they could have their revenge. 

Nazgrim barely noticed the sun as it started to fade across the plains; it wasn’t until the stars were out that he realized another day had blown past. He wondered if his master had noticed that he had crossed beyond the reach of his mind, but he was prepared to shoulder the consequences upon his return. Loyal though he was to King Bolvar, old bonds and vows still ran deep, and he needed to set things right.

Straightening his shoulders, he stared off into the twilight. In the distance, he could barely make out a crumbling rock, sharp and unnatural against the gentle hill slope, and a large iron boot left discarded and caked with mud. 

The growl that formed on his lips was lost to the whispering wind, but he still heaved his chest and quickened his pace. Though he had left the spirits behind and become what his people called _cursed_ , he still knew that no Orcish corpse deserved to be treated like this. Had Garrosh even crossed over without a shaman to guide him? How could Thrall treat him with such unbridled contempt?

Gritting his teeth and spitting, he yanked his axe off of his back. Gripping it by his side at least made him feel as if justice could still be done.

For his Warchief, and for his people.

As he made his approach, the details of Thrall’s disgrace started to come into focus. A leg bone stuck out from one end of the rock, while an arm draped down from above. He saw a hand, its finger bones scattered nearby by beasts, and then a skull that had fallen, crackled, into a puddle of mud. 

A shudder passed through the Deathlord and he paused, lowering his head, yielding to an emotion he couldn’t just call simple rage as it swept through his undead chest. 

No one had heard Garrosh murmuring during the night like he had. No one had felt the emotion in every touch or seen the way his hands shook when pain and heartbreak overtook him. No one had watched him tortured and tormented by that disgusting heart or sensed his mood change when they set foot onto Pandaria. His Warchief wasn’t a monster, but here he lay, blasphemed, abandoned just as he’d always feared. 

But Nazgrim was here to fulfill his promise: to stay by his Warchief’s side, and never abandon or scorn him.

Raising his axe to the air, he felt a chill sweep up from the earth to the metal edge of the blade. Like sleet kicking up in the wind, it rattled and bit at the Deathlord’s dead skin. Casting its tendrils forward, wrapping around the rock, it bathed the orc’s bones in the cool chill of death, and then slowly, a spirit materialized.

An orc rose from the ground like a shadow; dark turned to light, transparent became opaque, and wavering skin took form. Garrosh straightened and stared down at his hands, then lifted his gaze to meet Nazgrim’s: cold and unsure, widened, just as his own eyes had widened when he emerged through the tunnel of death into Durotar’s morning sun.

Nazgrim dropped to his knees. Shoving his axe in the ground, he wrapped his fingers around its shaft and kept his head bowed. Finally, slowly, with all the respect his new master demanded but which he knew he could only muster for him, for Garrosh, he murmured:

“Warchief. Welcome home.”


End file.
